


A Moment of Pointed Light

by The_Wavesinger



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-10
Packaged: 2018-08-21 17:14:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8253853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Two lovers Arien had, and what became of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Isilloth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isilloth/gifts).



> Title from T.S. Eliot.

Arien was the first of the Ainur to set foot on Arda, in the beginning. The world was still made of fire, and she reveled in the heat and the flames. Before Melkor, before his destruction and chaos, there was fierceness and warmth and life.

She dived among the rivers of flame with her lover, she-who-would-later-turn-to-the-dark. It was Melkor, again, who seduced her lover, took her away from Arien, into the bowels of the earth where there was no light.

Before, before, before Melkor, Arien was light, pure, incandescent flame, and warmth and heat and joy and protection. Before Melkor, Arien loved, and was loved.

 

 

Arien loved the flames that burned at the heart of the world; she did not love the destruction those flames wrought on life.

This, then, is why she never turned to the dark, to chaos and despair, to Melkor. She loved the flames, but only as they were. She loved the world at its beginning, but also loved the receding of the warmth, and fought against the tumult Melkor caused.

A flame is ephemeral; a candle burns out. Arien knew this. Her lover, the first lover, did not.

And so she fell.

Arien did not know of the betrayal. Or, she refused to know of the betrayal. She was light, she was fire, and she could not understand any perversion of what she knew to be the truth.

 

 

What you must know about Arien is that, when she loves, she lovely, wholly, deeply, and with all her heart.

And so she loved the one-who-well, and refused to see her for what she was.

(But that, too, is a lie. She loved more than one of the fallen.)

 

 

We Ainur knew Arien’s lover had fallen, but she refused to see it. And still, she refused to see it, and still, and still, until it came to battle and they were facing each other from opposite sides of the field.

She will not agree, she will deny this until the end, but, I think, some part of her refused to see it even then.

Arien was beautiful in her anger, then.

And that is another thing: fire is impersonal; fire devours. It was absolutely, utterly chilling how quickly Arien cast she-who-fell aside, even as it was right (when you fall, you cannot come back).

There are so many contradictions in this. Fire is a strange thing.

 

 

The second time was colder, a still flame, a blue-tinged spark devouring air.

It was Thuringwethil who Arien fell for, this time.

 I stand on the outside, and I cannot know, not truly, but even so, it was a match of light and dark, not the darkness of flame, but of absolute silence, the whisper of wings clouding over a starry night. Thuringwethil was not evil, then, but even not-evil, she was dark.

Arien, I think, had touched fire, and been burned.

(And, too, opposites attract, do they not? And if there ever was an antithesis of who Arien was, it was Thuringwethil, and her absence.)

 

 

When Arien loves, she is heat and passion, and her entire body sings for you. I do not know how Thuringwethil loves; I knew her even less than Arien’s first lover, even less than the fire perverted.

But I am being unfair; darkness is not always evil, and Arien saw this, perhaps, with clearer sight than I ever could. Again, the purity of a flame; she could not judge, and in this not-judgment, came closer to the truth than any other ever could.

Thuringwethil was made of shadow, even before, and she flitted between the stars and filled up the voids of the night. Her service was a necessary one; only in darkness, the light.

And Arien’s blood ran hot for her, hot and fierce and deep. It was a common sight, back then in Valinor, to stumble upon the two lovers kissing, entangled in a fierce embrace, their forms entangled.

And Thuringwethil burned with Arien’s light.

 

  


It was a strange picture, the two of them.

I know I repeat myself, but I cannot emphasize enough how strange it was, for the rest of us, that two so completely unlike each other could come together. Thuringwethil was the very opposite of passion, calm and cool and collected to Arein’s fire and beauty.

Except with Arien.

With Arien, she was seductiveness personified, elegant, graceful, tempting. It was not only Arien’s head which turned when Thuringwethil smiled, or let the hips of her fána sway gently.

It is ironic that Thuringwethil was, in the end, tempted away.

  


This time, Arien knew before we did.

She did not let go, though.

She fought, and fought, and we did not know, until, again, the end, that Thuringwethil had fallen.


End file.
